


Spellcaster

by Alasse_Irena



Category: Howl's Moving Castle - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:06:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alasse_Irena/pseuds/Alasse_Irena
Summary: In which Howell Jenkins uses a crush on Ben Sullivan as an excuse to search for another world





	Spellcaster

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtybinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybinary/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy! I find Howl procrastinating from study and drinking cheap wine very relatable.

It was technically true to say that Howell Jenkins and Benjamin Sullivan had never met. The phrase  _ never met _ , however, failed to properly describe the mental energy that Howell spent admiring his upperclassman.

It started with physical admiration. Lying sprawled on the lawn, enjoying a bottle of barely drinkable cheap wine, Howell’s eye was caught by an emerald green jacket on a passer-by. The wearer of the jacket was broad-shouldered, fair-haired, had an angular jaw and faraway eyes. The eyes were dark brown, which Howell couldn’t help noting would make a lovely contrast to his own pale blue-green.

It is difficult to stare at someone closely enough to mark the colour of their eyes without them eventually taking note. Benjamin Sullivan gave Howell a confused smile, and continued on his path across the lawn. It took him to the library. Howell did not resolve to study there until he had established the other boy’s habits, but the thought did occur to him.

***

It took him four weeks to be brave enough to ask Megan, who was friends with some of the handsome creature’s friends.

“Who’s that?”

Megan wrinkled her nose. Having had two years at university without her younger brother’s antics dogging her, she did not appreciate having him on the same campus again, let alone at the same parties. “Go and make your own friends, Howell.”

“I am. I’m making that friend. When you tell me his name.”

Megan knew her brother well. It was impossible  _ not _ to know Howell well. When you shared a house with him - specifically, when you shared a bathroom with him - you were privy to every small joy and failure in his life. This meant that she recognised the particular light in his eyes.

“Oh, don’t fancy him, Howell. That would be so  _ boring _ .”

Fancying him was boring, yes, Howell thought. Winning him would be much more interesting.

***

Halfway through what should have been his honours year, Benjamin Sullivan disappeared. Howell no longer saw him in the library, not even on the fourth floor behind the shelf where the 300s were kept. He didn’t see him in the club rooms after rugby, where they never spoke, but occasionally exchanged a nod. He did even see the familiar green jacket, now a little faded, as Ben hurried across the lawn in the evenings.

“He’s got a job in England,” said Megan, vaguely, when Howell asked.

This felt untrue in an intrinsic way that Howell couldn’t put his finger on.

“I think he’s on exchange?” said one of the rugby players, uncertainly.

This made Howell doubly suspicious.

“I have no idea,” said the professor who had been supervising Ben Sullivan’s thesis. She looked a little harried. “He didn’t even take a leave of absence. He’s just...gone? I haven’t seen a draft from him since February.”

“What was he working on?” Howell asked. His interest was piqued, now.

“A Welsh spellbook from the 14th century.”

“From a historical perspective?”

Technically, Howell’s major was philosophy. It had suited him: long afternoons spent lying on the lawns in summer, or in bed in winter, punctuated by occasional frantic nights of coffee-fueled activity. He was quite good at the weird abstract kind of thought required, the asking questions about questions, and thinking about thoughts.

“More linguistic. It’s not a recognised dialect of medieval Welsh.”

Howell’s Welsh was very good. He had grown up in a Welsh speaking family, and his mother had sung him countless folk songs and told him countless stories. His father was a collector of antique books, and thus Howell had had the opportunity to familiarise himself with a great deal of early Welsh language as a child. It wasn’t technically his area of study, but it could certainly be counted as an area of expertise.

“I don’t suppose I could have a look?”

***

It turned into a dissertation on the development of Welsh folk magics. His supervisor spoke to someone in student services, and waived some prerequisite subjects so that he could be credited for research outside his major. Sometimes, he was so engaged in the project that he forgot that he was searching for Benjamin Sullivan at all.

It was quite interesting, really. He started recognising odd habits that his mother had as ancient magics. When he asked her about the song she sang over the porridge pot when it was cooking, all she could tell him was that it was a cooking song, but it fitted patterns that he was coming to recognise.

Here’s a funny thing about the way spells work. When you look at a spell, it might appear to be a set of instructions, perhaps a little cryptic, perhaps alliterative, perhaps in rhyme. Really, the work of solving the puzzle of the spell is just a way of convincing yourself of your right to impose your will on the world around you.

For example, if you were to command a book to remember your page for you, neither you nor the book would be convinced of your authority. However, if you place the book into a pentagram, and place herbs representing memory and learning on the corners, and chant a song that has been remembering page numbers since the 14th century - well, it’s a little like a policeman wearing a uniform. Without the uniform, he’s just a man; with the uniform, he’s the law.

***

Howell created his own spell for finding Benjamin Sullivan. He found a torch (he hoped the magic wouldn’t know that the batteries were flat), a pair of binoculars, and a card with a painting of Saint Anthony on it. He had ideally wanted five items, because even if it was tacky, he couldn’t help appreciating the mystical aesthetic of the pentagram, but his imagination ran out after three. So he drew an equilateral triangle in chalk on the kitchen floor, with a wide circle around it. The circle was a little wonky, but he hoped the magic wouldn’t notice that either.

He put each item on one of the points of the triangle, then placed his house key in the middle.

“All right,” he said to it, as seriously as he could manage. “Take me to Benjamin Sullivan.”

He realised at this point that he should perhaps have lit a candle, so that in blowing it out he could leave the floor without feeling like he was abandoning his spell.

Too late now. He got to his feet, careful not to rub out any of his chalk. The key felt the same as it always did when he fitted it into the front door. He still couldn’t help feeling a sense of greater significance when it turned, though.

The click as he turned the latch reverberated down to his bone marrow.

He swung the door open onto a whole new world.


End file.
